A Simple Touch
by Gentle Hobbit
Summary: As Frodo begins to fade into the wraith world, he learns the value of a friend's simple touch. In turn, he teaches what he has learned to another.


Disclaimer: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: This short story was originally written for the "Frodo New Year Mathom Exchange" on LiveJournal. I was given an outline to which I had to write, in a genre (hurt/comfort) which I had not dealt with before. I enjoyed writing this very much, and found that, despite my lack of "FrodoHealing" skills, I *can* provide comfort.

  


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A Simple Touch

  
  


Clop, clop, clop. Bill's hooves struck rhythmically against the stones of the Last Bridge. Mist rose from the foaming waters that dashed themselves against the stone arches down below.

Pitter, patter! softly padded three pairs of hobbit feet, but the measured stride of booted feet made almost no noise at all.

The mist rose higher.

  


* * *

  


"Look, Mr. Frodo," Sam's voice said softly, reverently, "Mr. Strider says this is an elf stone. He found it when we crossed the bridge."

"I can't see it," Frodo said just as softly. "Not in all this mist, Sam. Perhaps when we get further from the river."

A quiet moment passed, and then -- "We've left the River far behind, Master. There's naught but hills and stone here."

"Ah," said Frodo after a pause. "Well, perhaps you can show it to me later, then."

"Right you are, Mr. Frodo."

  


* * * 

  


The group wended their way silently past the crumbled walls of stone and the lonely ruins that rose from the desolate land.

It seemed then to Frodo that his hearing had grown sharper, for even though it still seemed as if a mist were all about him, he could hear all manner of noises. Bill's hooves rang unnaturally loudly against the stones underfoot, so that Frodo could tell when a hoof landed untrue and he could tighten his right hand upon the reins as the pony lurched.

Merry and Pippin were whispering to each other up ahead and the sound carried clearly although Frodo could not make out the words. Strider walked quietly, but Frodo could still hear him even so.

Then those strides grew shorter and Frodo knew that the Ranger was coming near. A large warm hand briefly touched his cheek and then moved down to take his left arm.

"How are you doing, Frodo?" Another hand reached in under Frodo's cloak and gently laid itself over his shoulder. But as warm as the hand was, it did not lend any aid, unless it be the comfort of the very gesture itself.

"I'm all right," he answered.

The hand did not leave his shoulder. "Sam tells me you are having trouble seeing."

"A little," Frodo admitted. He could hear Sam approaching and felt something brush against his foot. "But never mind about me. Bill and I are becoming good friends." He stroked Bill's mane affectionately. Bill whickered. "We understand one another."

"You're a good lad, aren't you, Bill," came Sam's voice, and another hand wound itself amongst the long horse hair.

"Even so, Frodo, you must tell me if anything else should change."

Frodo turned his face towards the sound of Strider's voice. He could see the Ranger, if indistinctly. "I will." He turned to face forward again.

  


* * *

  


Thock!

Frodo jolted upright and pain shot through his shoulder. Beneath him, Bill whinnied uncertainly. It was two days after the Last Bridge.

The others stopped and crowded around. Their queries rose on high voices until Frodo glanced nervously about him, sure that Black Riders must be listening. But the silent forest stretched on endlessly into the fog.

"It's nothing," he apologized. "It's these trees. Every now and then a large drop hits my hands or face and startles me. I suppose I had been dozing off."

"They _are_ annoying," Merry agreed. "At least they keep off the worst of the rain."

A hand pressed against his lower back. Frodo did not need to turn to know that Strider stood silently beside him.

"We'd better keep moving," he said. "Never mind me!" And he pulled his hood further forward over his face.

A moment later, his cloak was being twitched forward and tucked snugly around his hand that held the reins. Then, once more the steadying hand held itself firmly against his back.

Thus, covered securely and bolstered from behind, Frodo fell asleep. The group moved on.

  


* * *

  


"No fire," muttered Sam. It was later that evening. "Just when a nice fire would have dried out our cloaks nice and proper, we can't get a single twig to light!"

He looked at Frodo who was hunched shivering on the ground. "We've got to get you warm somehow."

Merry stood up. "Right then," he said decisively. "That's it."

As the others looked at him questioningly, he walked around behind Frodo and sat down with his legs outstretched on either side of the bowed figure.

"Lean back against me, cousin," he said gently, and Frodo did so with a soft sigh. Merry wrapped what he could of his cloak around them both and held Frodo securely against his chest, with his arms curled protectively around. He bent his knees and sandwiched Frodo's legs between his own.

Frodo smiled faintly and his head lolled back against Merry's shoulder. "I remember when I used to hold you like this when you were small," he said, "and Pippin in his turn."

"And you used to tell us stories," Pippin said. "I loved that. All those scary stories, but you held us safe and warm in your arms. Now it's your turn." He too stood. "It's going to be hard holding Frodo's weight as well as your own, Merry, with nothing at your back." He sat down, his back wedged against Merry's. "This should balance you a bit."

Sam and Strider looked at each other and then back at the knot of cousins on the ground.

"That looks cozy, it does," Sam commented.

Strider looked at him. "Do you wish me to hold you and tell you scary stories, Master Samwise?"

Sam blushed and shook his head. "That's quite all right, sir. I'm fine where I am."

  


* * *

  


The wind whined fitfully. Frodo lay against the shallow scoop of cave that was their only refuge from the ceaseless rain. It was the evening of the third day since the river crossing.

Crack! A piece of shale skittered over the stony overhang and landed near Bill's left foreleg. The other hobbits grumbled or twitched slightly in their fitful sleep, but Strider did not move.

Shadows and wells of darkness. Frodo peered out into the night, all sleep lost to him. His left arm lay heavy and cold at his side.

Alert to all sounds, Strider turned his head to look at him.

"How are you doing, Frodo?" he said quietly.

Frodo laughed very very softly. "Wet and cold and miserable," he said, "as we all are."

Strider smiled. "True. Then, miserable, wet hobbit, I suggest that you sleep if you can."

Frodo thought for a moment. "I don't believe I shall be able to sleep. And you have done without for days. Shouldn't you get some rest? I imagine you'd have better luck than I."

Strider shook his head. "A valiant offer, Frodo, but one you should not make. You need sleep most of all and if by any chance it comes to you, you must be able to take it."

And with that, Frodo had to be content. But before shadowy shapes came to fret him in his hard-won rest, he was comforted by the warm glow of Strider's pipe.

  


* * *

  


The mist had returned. Curious, Frodo thought, for the rain had finally stopped. But at times he was forced to depend on Bill to guide him, for he was struggling up the steep pathways on his own. Although he could see dimly ahead of him, and could make out the shapes of the other four picking their way up the steep slope, he could not tell where to place his feet. More than once he made a misstep and stumbled.

And so he trudged doggedly on, his left arm cradled by the folds of his cloak, tucked against his chest as best as he could manage, and his right hand entwined in Bill's mane.

Silently, the group inched upward over the never-ending steps and hills.

  


* * *

  


Finally the ridge of the highest wave of hills was reached and it was all Frodo could do to make those last steps to the very top.

He sank to his knees and then fell, mercifully, onto his right side. It didn't even bother him now that the others were huddled in a knot, whispering. Until recently, their concern had been muted and cautious, supposedly, Frodo had thought, so as not to embarrass or overwhelm him. Even that made him uncomfortable, for it was his own foolishness at Weathertop that now so badly slowed them down and heightened risk and danger for all.

It was anger at himself and resentment which then made him lurch to his feet. Anything that could be done to reassure the others must be done, he thought and he straightened.

But as he did so, and the others turned to face him with cautious encouragement in their eyes, he realized his mistake. The mist swirled before him and his throat tightened. He swallowed convulsively. A curious prickling came over his forehead and suddenly he clutched at his left shoulder.

And just before he pitched forward into blackness, he could hear his own voice, as frightened as any child's, cry out.

  


* * *

  


It was Pippin, the nearest, who managed to catch him as he crumpled to the ground. And yet the limp weight of his cousin was lighter than Pippin expected, and he cradled Frodo in his arms. "He's still breathing," he offered tentatively.

"Get the fire going in that pit," Strider said tersely to Merry and Sam, and he hastily swept the ground free of twigs and pebbles. "Use anything you need to start it -- your own hair if you have to."

Pippin very carefully laid his cousin down in the nest of blankets Strider had thrown together. Frantic, Merry tore a handful of hair from his head and, for the first time in days, the fire was lit. Soon it burned merrily. Sam hastily filled the kettle with water and precariously balanced it over the fire.

The dancing flames seemed to cast back the gloom of the gathering dusk and the light shone on Frodo and Pippin beneath the encircling roots of an old pine tree that hung over the pit.

"Keep holding Frodo in your arms, Pippin," Aragorn said gently. "I need to look at him."

And so Pippin ever so tenderly held Frodo in his lap, face up and head against his shoulder. Sam and Merry crowded around careful not to obscure the light, but anxious and attentive nonetheless.

Strider knelt before the two hobbits on the ground, threw off his cloak and drew off his gloves.

First he held his hand an inch over Frodo's mouth and nose, and then touched his fingers to the pale neck.

"Is he all right?" asked Pippin.

"Perhaps," Strider said, still looking at Frodo intently. "His heart is beating, but his breath is shallow." With that he parted Frodo's cloak and began to unbutton his shirt.

Slowly and gently, as the hobbits looked on mystified, he slipped his hand through Frodo's garments and laid it on Frodo's chest. After a moment, he moved his hand and touched the unconscious hobbit again.

"What are you doing?" asked Sam, perplexed.

Strider ignored him and reached deeper, his hand curling around Frodo's left side. Slowly and methodically he pressed his open palm against Frodo, working down the left side and arm.

"I wish to see how far the cold has spread," Strider said softly.

"What cold?" asked Merry.

But at that moment Frodo awoke and cried out at the dark shape bending over him. He struggled to escape the smothering, clutching hands that held him down.

"Frodo!" Strider's voice was sharp. "Do not move. I will not hurt you."

Frodo went limp. "I can't see you," he said. "Where are you? Where are the others?"

"We are all about you," Strider answered. "Can you feel my hand?"

"What hand? Which hand?" Frodo asked. He looked about him and turned his head. "Someone is holding me..."

"That's me, Frodo," Pippin said anxiously.

"I am touching your left side, under your arm," Strider said.

"I can't feel anything."

"Then work with me, Frodo. Breathe deeply and relax. I am going to continue touching you. Tell me when you can feel my hand. All right?"

Frodo nodded and closed his eyes.

  


* * * 

  


It was an odd and unreal scene, Sam thought to himself as he fished out a small bowl for hot water, but it was mesmerizing all the same. Soft murmurings went on as Strider continued his examination and Frodo answered each query. For as harsh and practical the Ranger was in his everyday demeanour, he was gentleness and caution itself as he explored the extent of the wound's effect.

At last the Ranger had finished, and he covered Frodo with a blanket. He drew Merry and Sam aside.

"What is it," Merry asked. "What's happened?"

"Nothing has 'happened' as you put it, other than what you yourself saw," Strider said. "But he is weakening. He cannot feel anything at all on his left side and arm. And that area is cold to the touch."

"What can we do?" asked Sam.

"There isn't much we can do about the injury itself until we get to Rivendell. I'm afraid Frodo has been less than truthful about his condition."

"But can he be moved tomorrow?" asked Merry. "We must get him to safety."

"Yes, we must. And I cannot tell if Frodo has been wise or foolish in his deceit. He certainly understood the need for haste."

"But what are we to do?" repeated Sam.

"We've got to keep him warm," said Merry firmly. "Above all else."

Strider nodded.

"But that cold you mentioned, Mr. Strider," Sam said dubiously. "You make it sound like some kind of frost bite."

"No, not frost bite," the Ranger said thoughtfully. "But that is as good a way to describe it as any. And right now, that frost bite is spreading."

"Ought we to rub it then," Merry suggested. "Bring back circulation and all?"

"I don't know about that," Sam said. "I've seen skin damaged from that very thing."

"It is not frost bite, gentlemen," Strider said, "as tempting as the comparison might be. But I agree with Sam. There is some evil at work, and I am afraid of awakening it further. Do not touch his shoulder unless gently. But I think that tonight someone must sit with Frodo at all times. The fire will help, but..."

"...he needs more," Merry said.

And so, while Sam tended the fire and cooked the best possible dinner he could from their meager provisions, Pippin, Merry and even Strider held Frodo close in their arms. All the while they talked gently to him and laid cloths warmed by the fire over his side and arm. And Frodo, whose momentary fright and confusion had long since passed, lay quietly and trustingly in their embrace.

Sam shook his head slightly. All very good and proper, he thought to himself, them being cousins and all... or at least a Ranger... But still, a slightly wistful feeling arose in him until common sense put his mind firmly back on his work.

  


* * * 

  


But it wasn't until much later, when Merry and Pippin had fallen asleep, that Sam finally drew near, drawn by the soft singing. He handed another warmed cloth to Strider.

"Is that the Tale of Tinuviel, sir?" he asked as he looked down at Frodo. Frodo's eyes were closed and his face relaxed.

"It is," the Ranger replied as he tucked the new cloth about Frodo's neck. "It seems to be a favourite here." He too looked down with tenderness, Sam saw, at the sleeping hobbit. Yet the softness did not sit ill on such a usually stern face.

"Well," said Sam, abashed, "I'd best be getting back to the fire. Are there any cloths that have gone cold?"

"There are," Strider said, "but I think I myself shall set them to warm. Could you hold Frodo? I believe it's your turn."

"Oh," said Sam. "I don't think so, begging your pardon. I think he'd be more comfortable with one of his cousins."

"I don't see why. Besides, I need to stretch my legs. And it is their turn to sleep."

"Well, if you say so, sir," Sam said doubtfully. He sat down in Strider's place, his back comfortably settled against the side of the pit, and Strider laid Frodo in his lap. As the Ranger walked about the campsite and looked out into the night, Sam drew Frodo close to him.

"What would my Gaffer say now," Sam said to himself, "being so familiar with the Master and all." Carefully, he reached out to the side and nudged the heated, wrapped stones closer to Frodo's feet.

But when he looked back at Frodo's face, the eyes were opened and his master was smiling.

"I think that he would say that you are being quite sensible, taking your turn at such an onerous task," Frodo said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Sam looked at him in mild reproach. "Now, Mr. Frodo, you shouldn't say things like that."

"And why not? It is my silly fault that the four of you must be doing this in the first place. But," and he went on, forestalling Sam's objection, "since it must be done -- and don't misunderstand me, I am grateful for it -- I cannot imagine why you should feel uncomfortable."

Sam floundered. "Merry and Pippin are part of your family. And Mr. Strider, well, I don't rightly know what to say about him, but... it seems proper somehow. But me?"

Frodo, to Sam's amazement, gave a very light laugh. "Sam, you old ass, why not you? You've been a friend of the family's for as long as I can remember. And," here his voice became reflective, "I have seen how gently you treat those about you: children, your dear Gaffer, even the flowers in my own garden. Am I not to have that same gentle touch? Have I done something wrong?"

Shocked, Sam stared down at him. "Oh, no, sir. Of course not. Oh dear, oh dear. I didn't mean it like that."

"Then don't fret, unless it be because this task wearies you." Frodo closed his eyes. "If there is one thing I have learned from this, it is how dear the simple touch of a friend is. I can barely see you, Sam. You are a shadow in the grey night. But when I was a lad, my mother used to hold me much as you're doing now. I was smaller then, mind you. But she would hold me, sing to me, and touch my face ever so gently. And I never felt so safe, so warm and so loved as when she held me so." He paused then and added, "It is the dearest memory I have of her."

Sam swallowed then, for a lump seemed to be in his throat.

"I'm afraid I'm terribly selfish, Sam," Frodo said. And with a soft sigh he fell silent.

And so, as Strider came and quietly tucked newly warmed cloths under Frodo's clothing, Sam tenderly cradled his master close within the folds of his cloak. And so gently, reverently, he touched Frodo's face and spoke softly of good memories.

And Frodo smiled while the warm light of the dancing flames shone upon them both.

  


_The End_

  
  



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